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Transcript of The Wayfarer Vol. 3 Issue 2
-
The
A Journal of Contemplative Literature
Vol.3 Issue. 2I S S N 2 1 6 9 - 3 1 4 5
Wayfarer
Featuring the poetry of Monika John, Gary Pierluigi, Nicolo Santilli, Hope Hearken, D.L. Collins, Barry Yeoman, and Heloise Jones. Plus 6 questions with author Nora Caron and e Sinners Prayer by Dan Leach.
In the Book SpotlightTo Live in Paradise by Cindi McVey
Cosmos, Mythos & Spiritby Theodore Richards
The Men Died Firstby Sharlene Cochrane
A Compassionate Cynics Guide To Survivalby karuna das
Saving the Worldby Jamie K. Reaser
Creativityby J.K. McDowell
Feature PoetC.M. Rivers
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The
A Journal o f Contemplat ive Literature
WayfarerVol. 3 Issue. 2
The environmenTal ColumnSaving the World by Jamie K. reaser 2
The ConTemplaTive ColumnCosmos, mythos, & Spirit by Theodore richards 8
The poetry of monika John 12
The poetry of Gary pierluigi 14
The poetry of nicolo Santilli 15
rag and Bone man by Stephen poleskie 16
The poetry of heloise Jones 18
The poetry of hope hearken 20
The poetry of D.l. Collins 21
The poetry of Barry Yeoman 22
The men Died First by Sharlene Cochrane 24
Feature: The poetry of C.m. rivers 32
a Compassionate Cynics Guide To Survival by Karuna Das 35
6 Questions with nora Caron 44
The CreaTive ColumnCreativity by J.K. mcDowell 46
Bloodroot by Jamie K. reaser 51
The Sinners prayer by Dan leach 54
Book Spotlight To live in paradise 59
contents
A wayfarer is one who chooses to take up a long jour-ney on foot. The journey we chronicle within the jour-nal is that of our path across the inner-landscape of our own being, as we reach for answers to the central questions of our existence. Spirituality is the culmina-tion of the individuals desire to understand the deeper meaning in life. The works found within The Wayfarer are those small truths we gather while traversing the breadth of our days; shared in a belief that through an exchange of insights we help one another move for-ward. The Wayfarer is a quarterly journal distributed by Homebound Publications that explores humanitys ongoing introspective journey.
About Homebound Publications
It is the intention of those at Homebound to revive contemplative storytelling. The stories humanity lives by give both context and perspective to our lives. Some old stories, while well-known to the generations, no longer resonate with the heart of the modern man or address the dilemmas we currently face as individu-als and as a global village. Homebound chooses titles that balance a reverence for the old wisdom; while at the same time presenting new perspectives by which to live.
2014 Homebound Publications All Rights Reserved. All rights to all original artwork, photography and writ-ten works belongs to the respective owners as stated in the attributions. All Rights Reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted in any means (elec-tronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or other-wise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and publisher. Except for brief quota-tions embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Cover Photo: Midnight Sun by Josef Stuefer Slickr
Founder and Executive EditorL.M. Browning
Associate Editor & Staff WriterJamie K. Reaser
Staff WriterTheodore Richards
Staff WriterJ.K. McDowell
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2 | The Wayfarer: A Journal of Contemplative Literature
Saving the
WorldThe environmenTal ColumnBy Staff Writer Jamie K. Reaser
i have DeCiDeD To STop TrYinG To Save The WorlD.
I couldnt save my mother. she Was diagnosed With breast cancer in January 1990, a year after she had found a lump and Was told that it Was nothing to Worry about. When the doctors changed their minds, they gave her six months. she made it nearly six years be-cause she Was a single parent determined to
get her three daughters through college.She fought the cancer as if embattled in a war with
her own bodyenduring numerous rounds of the self-
inflicted attacks known of chemotherapy and radia-
tion, as well as a bone marrow transplant. and then,
one day, she decided to surrender, to make her peace
with mortality.
a mystic once told me, everything bound by form
must die.
By the time i was in my mid-twenties, Death was a
familiar. he had briefly held my hand when i was six.
he wiped away my tears when pets were buried and
flushed. and, he stood next to me at graveside when
the remains of my grandparents and my mother where
placed deep in the soilsoil which is the dark, dense,
gritty remains of other things that existed some time
ago.
* * * * *
For as long as i can remember, my primary relation-
ship has been with mother earth. in some form or
another, nature has always offered me companion-
ship, instruction, and inspiration. Slugs, ladybugs, and
toads were among my first playmates, and my first
teachers. They continue to crawl around in the cham-
bers of my heart, finding their way into poetry, art,
and particularly good days.
i was still very young when i was told that earth is
sick and, quite possibly, dying. i remember someone
saying that we humans are like a cancer that is slowly
killing her. perhaps, they said, she is terminally ill.
This was before i had befriended Death, and my
response was of deeply-rooted fear and inconsol-
able guilt. i put my metaphoric fists up and became
a fighteran activiston behalf of mother earth. i un-
derstood the prevailing threat to be people. Waging
battles against my own species became the hallmark
of my adolescence. in 1986, i had spent enough time
on the front lines to be named the Youth Conserva-
tionist of the Year by the virginia Wildlife Federation.
Death is an ecological process from which the human
animal is not exempt. in the moment that i accepted
this truth, i also awoke to the humbling realization
that i wasnt put on this planet to be its savior.
a mystic once told me, everything bound by form
must die.
mother earth is destined to pass away. i cant say
how she will die or when, but i do know that she is
subject to the same processes of decay and destruc-
tion as anything else that has taken shape in this
universe. maybe shell be hit by a big comet. maybe
some chemical reaction will cause the atmosphere to
change adversely, or perhaps the sun will burn out
and shell become too frigid for life. maybe human in-
security will foster such poor choices that we blow
her to bits. everything we cherish about this planet
will change and, in time, cease to exit. maybe it will
happen tomorrow. maybe it will happen hundreds of
generations from now.
i have made the conscious decision to stop try-
ing to save the world. To some, this might seem a de-
featist act. after all, it is not uncommon for people
environmenTal Column
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The Wayfarer: A Journal of Contemplative Literature | 3
to get depressed and tune out (mentally escape)
when enduring seemingly insurmountable struggle,
to shut down in the face of peril, to become paralytic
as doom approaches.
When threatened:
Fight
Flee
Freeze
We can choose anoth-
er way.
To paraphrase albert ein-
stein, You cant solve a
problem at the level at
which it was created. in
other words:
Selfishness does not re-
solve selfishness.
philosopher arne naess
is quoted as saying, un-
happily, the extensive
moralizing within the
ecological movement has
given the public a false
impression that they are
being asked to make a
sacrificeto show more
responsibility, more con-
cern, and a nicer moral
standard. But all of that
would flow naturally and
easily if the self were wid-
ened and deepened so
that protection of nature
was felt and perceived
as protection of our very
selves.
it sounds glorious to try to save the planetnoble,
coolbut the motivation to protect mother earthpa-
chamamaGaiaTurtle island is often motivated by
the same force that is making her sick, namely the
desire of humans to benefit humans. actions aimed
at saving the planet are largely a quest for human
security, for certainty in a comfortable future. What
is currently regarded as Western Culture sets the
standards for comfortable; high standards that leave
little room for negotiation. Terms like protect, con-
serve and sustain generally mean to prevent loss
and maintain the status quo.
Separation doesnt resolve separation.
The ideologies prominent in western culture largely
perceive humans as separate from the animal king-
dom, and thus not subject
to ecological constraints
- resource limitation, for
example. many environ-
mentalists further the per-
spective that humans are
a part from, rather than a
part of, the natural world
by regarding what people
do and manifest as some-
thing innately obscene.
Beaver dams, bird nests,
and fox dens may have
a mystique about them,
but something human-
fabricated is considered
unnatural, artificial, and
often an assault upon the
earth simply because it is
of human origin.
my adolescent sen-
timents toward people
are so common among
environmentalists that
they function as a green
membership card. many
people committed to sav-
ing the planet have a
distinct distain for their
own species. people are
considered the problem
- a cancer attacking its
mother. The earth would
be better off without us.
But to see homo sapiens as a part of the earth-
system is to see the anti-human sentiment in the en-
vironmental movement as something akin to an au-
toimmune disorder: self-inflicted dis-ease. in general,
autoimmune disorders dont promote healing, they
debilitate and kill.
Control does not resolve control.
My decision
to stop trying
to save the world
was not defeatist,
it emerged out of
something activated
deep in the chambers
of my heart
something generative.
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4 | The Wayfarer: A Journal of Contemplative Literature
The quest for security drives people to try to con-
trol their circumstancestheir environment. a sense
of separation from the environment enables the hu-
man ego to foster the belief that is possible to domi-
nate the world.
The health problems that mother earth is now fac-
ing are primarily derived from the human enterprises
efforts to manipulate the environment beyond the en-
vironments ability to adversely impact peoplebuild-
ing permanent structures, managing temperature,
controlling water and food supplies, and redistributing
natural resources through trade and transportation
all on a large scale. Beliefs in permanency and the
ability to command ecological systems are illusional,
yet they serve as the foundations of human progress.
many of the solutions being proposed to address
the environmental crises also arise out of a cosmology
of human-domination of earth systemsgenetic en-
gineering, determining weather patterns, and turning
the atmosphere into a chemistry laboratory. one of
the side effects of our philosophical separation from
the natural world is our ignorance of natural systems
and their functionality. enacting these proposals for
the treatment of mother earth is akin to throwing a
wide range of pharmaceuticals at an ailment without
understanding the consequences the drugs will have
on the human body.
i didnt stop loving my mother when i learned that she
was dying. To the contrary, i took actions to express my
love for her. i was her eldest daughter. When she was
diagnosed with cancer, i was four months away from
finishing college. i gave up my plans to go straight to
graduate school and, instead, moved home to help
her through her treatments. i chose to love her despite
a sense of impending loss, despite the pain that was
sure to come. l chose to honor our relationship and be
in service of something greater than my-self.
environmental activist and Buddhist scholar, Joanna
macy, writes, Were not going to save our world by
sermonizing and preaching to each other. nor will we
save our world out of duty and grim determination, or
by winning an argument and persuading other people
that theyre wrong. We probably can only save our
world through loving it enough.
We are a species that has the capacity to make
choices regarding the evolutionary tra jectory of our
consciousness. What if we didnt use love as a path-
way to security? What if we chose to love this world
while acknowledging that the world as we know it will
end? What if people chose to love this worldinclud-
ing the animal known as homo sapienswithout feel-
ing entitled to something in return?
my decision to stop trying to save the world was not
defeatist, it emerged out of something activated deep
in the chambers of my heartsomething generative. i
asked myself how i wanted to honor my relationship to
mother earth despite her mortality. i questioned who i
wanted to be in relationship to her. i began to explore
what i wanted it to mean to be human. i asked, What
is the most potent essence of humanity?
In Reason for Hope, primatologist Jane Goodall
writes, it is these undeniable qualities of human love
and compassion and self-sacrifice that give me hope
for the future. We are, indeed, often cruel and evil. no-
body can deny this. We gang up on each one another,
we torture each other, with words as well as deeds,
we fight, we kill. But we are also capable of the most
noble, generous, and heroic behavior.
i havent stopped loving mother earth because i re-
alize that she will die someday. To the contrary, my life
has become an expression of my love for her. i have
come home to her by accepting myself and homo sa-
piens as animal, as natural, as an aspect of her and
hard as it may be at timesto try to love every part
of her.
real generosity toward the future lies in giving
all to the present, writes philosopher albert Camus. i
honor the individuals and organizations who actively
participate in the environmental movement, who dili-
gently work to analyze human impacts and develop
options to reduce to size of the human footprint. They
offer us something vital: strategies. Strategy is im-
portant, but it is not enough. in order to be effective,
strategies need to be implemented. implementation is
facilitated by the motivation to implement. Fear has
proven to be a poor motivatora destructive rather
than a generative force. i believe that what we most
need to give to the present are two outgrowths of love:
grief and gratitude.
To grieve is human
it is natural to feel grief when we lose something that
we love. Those who have tended the terminally ill un-
derstand that there is also a pre-grieving process that
can take place when we anticipate loss. Grief cracks
the heart open, making space for compassion, for un-
derstanding, for kinship, for us to claim our humanity.
-
We, as a species, have not been grieving enough. one
of the characteristics of Western Culture is emotional
adolescence. or, as Jungian psychologist Bill plotkin
would say, pathoadolescencepathologic immatu-
rity. much of todays society has been culturally pro-
grammed not to feelto escape (flee) from feeling
through food, drugs, television, and various electronic
media and gadgetry. embracing our emotions, espe-
cially grief for our mothers ills, provides an opportu-
nity to be fully human, and to initiate society into an
adulthood that has the capacity to nurture self and
other. Through our grief, we can discover our humanity.
Gratitude grows our humanity
Gratitude is defined as the quality of being thankful;
readiness to show appreciation for and to return kind-
ness. Gratitude is powerful medicine. Gratitude enliv-
ens. Gratitude holds space for the generative forces
of wonderment and connection. We can be grateful
for the opportunity to be alive. We can be grateful
for every living creature and life-sustaining process.
From this place of gratitude, we can choose to en-
gage in strategic acts of reciprocityto actively love
life in all its forms and create opportunities for na-
tures regenerative capacities to thrive.
at this point, it is not hard to hear critical voices
saying, Well that all sounds nice, but lets get real.
The hippies had their love fest and then went on to
become self-serving corporate executives.
The love that i am referring to is not an unground-
ed, new age notion rooted in a desire to blissfully
escape from the challenges inherent in the tangible
world. To the contrarythe love that i speak of re-
quires humans to stand firmly and consciously in the
messy thick of it, and to be courageously vulnerable.
We need to learn to let go of our sense of entitlement
to tomorrow, and accept uncertainty and insecurity as
the natural rhythms of life. We need to be brave and
humble enough to let ourselves be cracked open, over
and over again, from the inside-out.
The ideal of warriorship is that the warrior should be
sad and tender, and because of that, the warrior can be
very brave as well, writes Chgyam Trungpa, author of
Shambala: The Sacred Path of the Warrior. What might
become possible if fear-and-guilt motivated activists
transformed themselves into heart-warriors?
in her poem, The Journey, mary oliver speaks to the
process of realizing that that there is only one life that
you can save:
one day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do-
determined to save
the only life you could save.
i have decided to stop trying to save the world. instead, i
have decided to actively love this world while being fully
aware of its temporal limitations, its mortality. loving
this world has not guaranteed my life, but it has given
me inspiration to live. loving this world enables me to
more fully express my human soulmy humanity. This
is what i can save, and this is how i can best serve our
mother in her time of need.
To quote 13th century persian poet, Jalal al-Din muham-
mad rumi, Yesterday i was clever, so i wanted to change
the world. Today i am wise, so i am changing myself.
Jamie K. reaSers writing explores themes at the interface of nature and
human nature. in addition to more than 100 professional publications in the
fields of biology and environmental policy, she is the author of four collec-
tions of poetry and the editor of two anthologies. Jamie currently serves as
an associate editor for The Wayfarer journal and is a member of the interna-
tional league of Conservation Writers.
-
Z
ion
by M
oonl
ight
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to b
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.H. P
arks
on
Flic
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-
The ConTemplaTive Column
by Staff Writer Theodore Richards
Wheres your mother? my father asked, fumbling With his keys and, more signifi-cantly, his emotions. he couldnt bear to go inside to look for her. so i did. she stood in the kitchen, Weeping, clutching the book.
Cosmos, Mythos, & Spirit Reflections on Spirituality in a Changing World
ConTemplaTive Column
-
The Wayfarer: A Journal of Contemplative Literature | 9
are you having a hard time, mom? i asked.
it was his favorite book, she sobbed, showing me
Sylvester and the magic pebble. i remembered the
book well. it is the story of a donkey, Sylvester, who ac-
cidentally, magically turns himself into a rock, and the
year his parents spend looking for and mourning him
before he finally, miraculously returns. The book had
always made her cry.
i held her for a while,
sharing the unspoken
knowledge that my
brother would not return
like Sylvester. Come on,
i said. lets go.
i wanted to bury the
book with him, she said.
We can do that, i
said. its oK.
and we got in the car
for the first time since my
brother was born thirty-
seven years before, a
family of threeto bury
my brother and his favor-
ite book.
* * * * *
Books had always been
important for us. not
only for my mother (a
reading teacher) and me
(a writer) but for my fa-
ther and brother as well. i
can see now, as a parent,
how stories become the
stuff that brings a world
into being, the stuff that
brings the individual into
community. There was a
little bit of Sylvester with
my brother alwaysit
made sense to bury the
book with him. Books allow for the emerging interior
self to connect to the broader world through spacein
broadening ones sense of possibility and interrelated-
nessand time, in connecting us to the stories of the
past.
even before there were books, human beings told
stories. Before we spent our evenings around the light
of the television, we sat around the fire. and wenot
a box with a screentold the stories. Storytelling was
among the earliest art forms and, like all art forms, was
participatory. The story comes into being not when the
writer puts it on paper, but in the space in between
reader and writer, between the teller and the listener.
The participatory imagination of the audience co-
creates it. and together,
worlds are created. The
oldest stories are stories
of creation, stories that
always end with the lis-
tener; for a creation sto-
ry tells us not only about
the cosmos beyond, but
the cosmos within us, not
only tells us the history of
our world, but how we fit
in it.
Telling stories, as
much as anything else,
makes us human. it is our
especially human way of
making a world.
* * * * *
There are no spiritual
traditions i know of that
do not revolve around
stories. Students of re-
ligion and converts so
often start in the wrong
place, with philosophies
and theologies, or worse,
lists of rules. if you want
to understand a spiritual
tradition, the place to
go is the story. For in the
story, the hardest ques-
tions are asked: Who am
i? Why am i here? Where
are we going?
and stories, like faith traditions, are alive. We like to
think of them as being one thing, written down at some
point and never changing. But the truth is that what it
means to be a Christian or a Jew or a Buddhist or a
hindu has been changing throughout history, and is al-
left: photo by Chinni Wong (Flickr Creative Commons)
Cosmos, Mythos, & Spirit Reflections on Spirituality in a Changing World
These special stories
are called myths.
Sadly, weve turned
that word into an insult.
It has become something
like a synonym for a lie.
But myths are simply stories
that tell us something
more important,
more essential
than mere facts.
They give us a sense
of who we are
and our place in the cosmos.
-
10 | The Wayfarer: A Journal of Contemplative Literature
ways contextual. The apparent solidity of the written
word belies the fact that the story evolves, too, even
when the words on the page do not change. For con-
texts change, and with them interpretations.
if we want to understand the hebrew Bible, for in-
stance, we are better off looking at the exodus story
than merely the Ten Commandments. in either case,
there is a complex set of contexts the help bring the
texts to life. Scholars can help us come to understand
the historical context, of course. But it is the participa-
tion by the reader in the text that truly brings it to life:
The captivity in Babylon has more meaning, and even
new meaning, through the eyes of those in captivity,
the migrants and the incarcerated; american Chris-
tianity only truly could understand the exodus story
through the eyes of Black america, a people who be-
came a people in their yearning to be free.
These special stories are called myths. Sadly,
weve turned that word into an insult. it has become
something like a synonym for a lie. But myths are sim-
ply stories that tell us something more important, more
essential than mere facts. They give us a sense of who
we are and our place in the cosmos. They allow us to
grapple with truths that are paradoxical and that arent
necessarily a matter of knowing information. another
way of putting it is to say that the myth is the primary
way that a culture conveys a cosmology. and a cos-
mology is not merely about the universe out there; it is
about the universe within. it links individual and whole.
The question we all have, i suspect, is not so much
about what happens to us after we die but whether or
not we are alone in the universe. are we participat-
ing in a community or not? are we essentially inter-
connected or isolated? if we are alone, no afterlife we
seek after would be worth much; for me, even a blink of
an eye with the possibility of true communion with oth-
ers would be preferable to such an eternity. and we are
brought together by the story, the fabric of our social,
cultural, and spiritual ecology.
* * * * *
We are in trouble just now, writes Thomas Berry, be-
cause we do not have a good story. Berry is writing
about industrial civilization and the story we havetold
through the mechanisms of consumer capitalismthat
teaches us that our world is a collection of objects to
be exploited. it is the story that tells us we are funda-
mentally alone, and in competition with one another, the
story that we become who we are based on what we
can buy. and the trouble he refers to is the imminent
ecological, planetary collapse due to our overconsump-
tion.
There is no more important work than re-imagining
this story. and it is work that requires not merely the
mind, but the whole self. it requires not merely an indi-
vidual, but an entire culture. The new story will be more
tapestry than a single cloth, more library than single
text.
To bring forth a new myth requires work that is deep
and hard. We must get outside and get our hands dirty
to re-embed in the earth; we must explore our interior
lives and do the soul-work that brings about the deep-
est insights; we must engage the old story with critical
consciousness to become, in the Gramscian sense, phi-
losophers for the people; we must sing and dance and
play and explore.
my suspicion is that the new story must come from
the margins, from those who havent been served by
the story we have now. This was an insight that Jesus
seems to have had. he didnt seek out the temple priests
or the Greek elites or roman power; rather, he went to
To bring forth a new myth requires work that is deep and hard. We must get outside
and get our hands dirty to re-embed in the earth; we must explore our interior lives
and do the soul-work that brings about the deepest insights; we must engage the old
story with critical consciousness to become, in the Gramscian sense, philosophers for
the people; we must sing and dance and play and explore.
-
TheoDore riCharDS is a poet, writer, and religious philosopher. he has received de-grees from various institutions, including the university of Chicago and The California institute of integral Studies, but has learned just as much from practicing the mar-tial art of Bagua; from traveling, working or studying all over the world; and from the youth he has worked with on the South Side of Chicago, harlem, the South Bronx, and oakland. he is the author of handprints on the Womb, a collection of poetry; Cosmoso-phia: Cosmology, Mysticism, and the Birth of a New Myth, recipient of the independent publisher awards Gold medal in religion and the nautilus Book awards Gold medal; the novel The Crucifixion, recipient of the independent publisher awards bronze medal; and Creatively Maladjusted: The Wisdom Education Movement Manifesto, which radically re-imagines education. Theodore richards is the founder of The Chicago Wisdom project and teaches world religions at The new Seminary. he lives in Chicago with his wife and daughters. his next novel, The Conversions, will be released in october
those who were, as he was, at the margins of society.
There was a wisdom from those margins that could not
be found at the centers of power. indeed, in todays world
this would mean turning away from the university and
looking to the streets, away from Wall Street and toward
the shanty towns outside the centers of capitalist power.
it means turning to what martin luther King, Jr called
the creatively maladjusted, those who do not adapt to
an insane world and instead attempt to re-imagine it. it
is the kind of wisdom that the Trickster Tales teach us:
that there is an insanity in the work of building human
civilization, and to appear mad in the face of it is a deep-
er wisdom than conforming to it.
But those at the margins, of course, are taught that
they are there because of their own deficiencies. Choic-
es is a word we will here over and over again in our
poor schools, the schools that send more of our youth to
prison than collegeas if life were so simple, as if mere
individual choices determine our fate and there is not
a whole universe of other choices conspiring to affect
us as well. This is the deficit narrative. The reclamation
of the narrative is the counter-narrative. This must be a
central aspect of any worthwhile educational program
for the marginalized. it was what Jesus and Chuang Tzu
and Baal Shem Tov, to name a few, offered: a narrative
that challenges the one we have been given.
it is easy to see, i think, how a counter-narrative might
be useful for the oppressed. But we must come to terms
with the fact that the condescending term at-risk, ap-
plied most to black and brown youth, applies to all of us.
We are an at-risk species on an at-risk planet. our work,
our great work, is to tell a new story for us all. anything
less is the rearrangement of deckchairs on this planetary
Titanic.
* * * * *
We made it to the cemetery, and i stammered through
the eulogy. my brother had little patience for intellec-
tual and spiritual laziness and preferred to face the
unknown with honest unknowing. Telling people what
they want to hear makes a lot of money in the pulpit,
but to honor my brother i had to tell another story: that
life is hard, and short; even the luckiest among us gets
a mere blink of an eye and cannot avoid suffering. it is
funny that the stories of so many of our great spiritual
iconsJesus and the Buddha, for exampleare stories
of this encounter with suffering, and yet our religions so
often seek to avoid its reality.
i held my mother as she placed the book in my
brothers grave. his sons stood uncomprehendingly
in the face of eternity. it was autumn. For a moment,
in the stillness of the cemetery, i could feel the move-
ment of seasons. off in the distance there was a high
school. my brother had played football there once in
high school, my mother said.
like the seasons, stories bring us into participation
with the cosmos. We will all die. my brothers ashes
were placed in the earth like the bodies of his ances-
tors.
and like the seasons, stories come back. The spirits
of our ancestors live on in story. They do not remain
static. We can participate with stories, change them.
They are there to serve us now and in the future. it mat-
ters less if Jesus said exactly the words written down
in the Bible than how those words come alive for us,
make our lives meaningful, and, of course, what we do
with those words. Words make worlds. and the mythol-
ogy of my brother can be the way he remains with his
sons in some small way.
-
12 | The Wayfarer: A Journal of Contemplative Literature
Stardust and peace by monika John
my mind is joined
to victim and violator,
to conquerors greed
and insights of Sufi saints.
my feet tread on dust
of blood drenched battle fields
and of the one
who walked in palestine.
my lungs fill with air
expelled in Genghis Khans curses
and the sanctified breath
of abraham.
i am no more than stardust,
a fleeting spark in space,
yet i abide eternally unchanging
in all embracing peace.
one people by monika John
pilgrims always meet again,
oceans and mountains
mere trifles in their journey.
They are drawn together
by the finer stuff
that makes toy puzzles
out of continents.
Driven by an inner calling
they circle the globe
weaving common threads
of one people, one planet.
until then i practice.... by monika John
Since i am still learning
that all beings are my Self
i practice tolerance.
Till i know for certain
that there is nothing to attain
i practice patience.
as long as i cannot love
without conditions
i practice loyalty.
While i yet wonder
if all actions are just and fair
i practice forgiveness.
until ultimate Truth
dawns on me wholly
i need to practice virtues. .
But the day i hold in my hand
the one perfect rose
i need not count its petals.
poems by moniKa John, writer, attorney
and world traveler living in Washington
State. her writings have appeared in vari-
ous journals and magazines in the uSa and
uK: most recently Buddhist Poetry Review,
Light of Consciousness Magazine, Urthona
UK, Penwood Review, Presence International
Magazine, Anthology on Tagore, UK, Fun-
gi and Quiet Shorts Magazine, Sathya Sai
Magazine, Scheherazades Bequest. | photo
right: prayer Wheel michael Bay Flickr Cre-
ative Commons
-
14 | The Wayfarer: A Journal of Contemplative Literature
To Kill a mockingbird by Gary pierluigi
it was the world i lived in.
i thought people like atticus Finch
existed, and of course there was that
homemade apple pie.
in the moonlight i crept from yard to
yard eating over ripe tomatoes.
i sometimes cracked pumpkins over
my knee.
i was in awe that atticus read to his
little girl at night while she sat on his lap.
and answered questions.
in the darkness i urinated on an
assortment of vegetables, carving my
initials onto each and every one, and
would sometimes lay on my back looking
up at the stars, willing into existence
a father like atticus Finch.
Since first being published in Quills, Gary has been
published in numerous poetry journals, including
Cv2, Queens Quarterly, On Spec, Filling Station, The
Dalhousie Review, The Nashwaak Review, Grain, and
Misunderstandings Magazine. he was short listed for
the CBC 2006 literary awards in the poetry catego-
ry, a finalist in the lit pop awards and received an
honorable mention in The ontario poetry Societys
open heart Contest. his first poetry book,* over
the edge, has been published by Serengeti press.
his first novel, abraham man, is currently being re-
vised.
-
The Wayfarer: A Journal of Contemplative Literature | 15
Dreams by nicolo Santilli
we long for the realms of luminous beauty
where beauty dances on the swaying grass
with immortal love and sorrow
and we would follow the spirit path
glimmering through ageless forests
surrounded by creatures
alight on the transparent wings
of dreamspells
and soft desires
so that each glimpse would be a prize
and if a spirit should follow us back
we should have to see the familiar world
to which we returned
through their startled eyes
as infinitely deep and dear
or dreary with empty dreaming
Sacrifices by nicolo Santilli
a saint sees the sacrifices
that lie under every paving stone
and in every mouthful of food
how a world of suffering
is condensed into every tear
and thousands died
that one may smile
and a million curses
had to be overcome
that we might love
and pledge our hearts
beyond the raging field
of desire
nicolo Santilli is a philosopher and poet, residing
in Berkeley, Ca. | photo by ladyDragonflyCC on
Flickr
-
16 | The Wayfarer: A Journal of Contemplative Literature
BY STephen poleSKie
We lived in the third floor apartment. my father had been left the build-ing by his mother, and We could
rent out the rooms on the second floor to lodgers for more money. the space on the ground floor, Which had been my grandmothers shop until she died, and her third husband ran off With Whatever money Was left in the bank, Was rented to mickey the barber.
From the window of the
bedroom i shared with my un-
cle edward, i could see Grove
Street. The two rear windows
in our kitchen had a view of
our small yard, in the center
of which stood the tiny spruce
tree my father had planted
the day i was born. i would
come back years later to find
it higher than the house; and
still later gone, cut down by
the new owners to make way
for a clothesline. a picket fence
separated one side of the yard
from the sidewalk and street.
The back border was formed
by a row of chicken coops and
a garage. a high wire fence ran down the other side, di-
i could see him now.
The old man had
stopped on the
corner and was just
sitting silently on
his wagon, waiting.
my heart was
pounding with fear.
i had never seen
the rag and bone
mans eyes look
so beady, so full of evil.
he took out a
red handkerchief
was this the signal?
viding us from the people next door. Their house was
as tall as ours, so i could see nothing out that way but
a wall. as work at the local coal mine was slow, most
of the bars on Grove Street had closed, the one un-
derneath the neighbors be-
ing one of the few remain-
ing. its sign, which was lit
up at night, cast a red glow
on the walls my bedroom.
in the morning huge trucks
would come by and wake
me up with a great racket,
as they unloaded barrels of
beer that were rolled down
a ramp into the bars cold
cellar.
mostly, i stayed in my
room all day and watched
the activity on Grove Street
out the window. i dont re-
member going down to
the street much until i was
at least three years old, al-
though i must have. i had
long hair, which my moth-
er set in curls. people who
didnt know me used to say:
oh what a beautiful girl!
Then my sister was born,
and i was changed back
into a boy. i had my hair
cut downstairs at mickeys.
i remember crying because
i was afraid it was going to
hurt. my mother said: if you
dont stop crying, i am going to give you to the rag and
bone man.
R a g a n d
-
The Wayfarer: A Journal of Contemplative Literature | 17
i dont know why he was called the rag and bone
man, probably because he dressed in rags. i do re-
member he had a horse and wagon. my mother was
always threatening to give me to the rag and bone
man if i didnt do something or othergo to sleep, eat
my dinner, wash my hands. This made me feel espe-
cially worthless, as everything else she didnt want she
sold to the rag and bone man; rusty pots and pans,
broken sewing machines, anything that had outlived
its usefulness. Was i not even worth as much as my
mothers junk? i wondered. now my father, who had
never been home much anyway, had gone off to fight
in the war, leaving me here with mother, and my baby
sister, who always cried to get everything she wanted
given to her.
Before my mother had begun her threats i had
waited in excitement for the rag and bone man to ap-
pear, listening to the bellow of his horn as he made his
way down Grove Street. Warm days found me hanging
out my window, hoping to catch a glimpse of the trea-
sures he had stowed in his cart. on those infrequent
days when mother, or the lady from downstairs, would
rush out with some small item to sell and the rag and
bone man would stop on our corner, my eyes would
enjoy a special treat as they inventoried the contents
of his rickety cart.
now i no longer waited for the rag and bone man
with pleasure but with fear. Was today the day he
would come for me? had my mother made some se-
cret pact with the gnarled old man to take me away as
a punishment for something she perceived i had done
wrong? at the first sound of his horn i interrupted my
play and took flight, diving under the spruce trees, and
then crawling behind the peonies.
Small bugs circled my blinking eyelids as i peered
through the picket fence. The rag and bone mans once
cheerful horn had become a mournful dirge, a sound i
STephen poleSKie is an artist and writer. his writing
has appeared in journals both here and abroad and in
the anthology The Book of Love, (W.W. norton) and been
nominated for a pushcart prize. he has published seven
novels. his artworks are in the collections of numerous
museums, including the moma, and the metropolitan mu-
seum. he has taught at The School of visual arts, nYC,
the university of California, Berkeley, and Cornell uni-
versity. poleskie lives in ithaca, nY. website: www.Ste-
phenpoleskie.com
remembered from my aunt Beatrices funeral, the day i
learned what to be dead meant. The horse and wagon
was in front of our house now, but i wouldnt see the rag
and bone man until he passed the corner. i squatted low-
er in the flowers, making sure i had a clear path to the
chicken coop. i planned my escaperun across the open
yard, jump onto the water barrel, scramble on the coop,
then over the garage roof, and get away by the back al-
ley. my grandma lived at the end of the alley. She baked
me cookies when i went to visit her, and would never al-
low me to be taken away by a rag and bone man.
i could see him now. The old man had stopped on the
corner and was just sitting silently on his wagon, wait-
ing. my heart was pounding with fear. i had never seen
the rag and bone mans eyes look so beady, so full of evil.
he took out a red handkerchiefwas this the signal? i
prepared to flee. But my mother did not come down. The
old man blew his nose in the handkerchief, and then put
it back in his pocket.
Giddy up! he growled, giving his horse a crack with
the reins.
Still crouched in my hiding place, i felt a sense of re-
lief come over me. i listened to the bellow of his horn,
and the clip-clop of hoofs, as the rag and bone man
slowly disappeared down Grove Street.
B o n e M a n
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18 | The Wayfarer: A Journal of Contemplative Literature
The altar of Birds by heloise Jones
i.
i looked to the dawn sky over the bay,
saw the coral sheets i knew colored
the sand, the water, the homefronts.
When i finally stood at the pink tinted shore,
trails of fire-edged clouds above,
i stood at the altar of Birds.
hundreds in flight, set for flats and shallows,
gathering by tribe. heron, ibis, pelican,
seagull, darter, duck. a roseate spoonbill,
a rose on stilts. an osprey, a tiny fish
in its talons. Far from shore,
black shadows of longnecked bodies
sprinkled like crooked flowers. Then, water
lightens to the color of sky. The slap of
big wings, throaty murmurs, aaahhs,
soft clicks and loud squawks.
of all, the gulls scream for the sun. rip the air.
only quiet when the glowing orb frees
the horizon, sprays a rippled copper path
across the bay, assures of another day.
later, theyll forget mornings promise.
Their voices will rise, wail as the fireball drops,
the sky flares, warning of a sun
nearly gone, lost below the tree line.
marvel the mullet, i say. how they throw
themselves where gills dont work. leap
where air means death. and yet, they fly.
airborne, again and again and again.
im reminded of a time we
walked a great distance into the Gulf.
The tide at our hips. a sea warm as bathwater.
people shrunk to mere dots, specks on shore.
at our knees, fish as long as my thigh
chased fish as big as my hand. Then, fish
large as a lifeboat cruised a prairie of
seaweed, stalking, maybe me.
i live where birds cover marsh trees like blossoms.
palms rustle like mountain streams.
The stillness of egrets and herons hold space.
Where pelicans glide in formation, wingtips on water,
baby dolphins flip, and spindly legs
reach shyly from a shell in my hand.
Where rainbowed butterflies of miniature mussels
join conch, all peachy and buttery cream,
buried in crude on the ocean floor, in waters
Corexit swirls with blood
like plastics taint the pacific.
ii.
i hold a tiny, dried corpse of a horseshoe crab.
The shell paper-thin, the legs perfectly curled,
its blue blood long gone. i think
of the time 22 miles out to sea,
at the Gulf Stream in the atlantic.
The singular, giant dolphin. The singular bird
as i stood at the stern of a boat, tipped
my dads ashes into deepest water,
watched tiny pieces of bones & ash
bloom as tall and big as he was
when i was a little girl.
i celebrate the horseshoes slip
past human dominion, its march through
the rise and demise of epochs and species,
carrying copper-laced blood as expensive
as gold. i know ill search for them in
lifetimes hence when i return, walk the shores
once more, pray at the altar of Birds.
heloiSe JoneS lives in St. petersburg, Florida after
decades in the mountains of new mexico and north
Carolina. Though she's a town dweller, she finds the
sacred in the wonder and rhythms of nature. She's
always loved birds. a Thomas Wolfe Fiction prize fi-
nalist, her publications include a contributing essay
in the bestselling book, 'What i Wish for You' by patti
Digh. www.heloisejones.com
-
Phot
o
Jam
ie K
. Rea
ser
-
20 | The Wayfarer: A Journal of Contemplative Literature
89+ by hope hearken
red eyes in leaves
statues of dead trees
and azazel stood up
mountains blackened
my son was still gone
had never been home
earth jumped it's axis
and i didn't know exodus
demons sank islands
erupted volcanoes
exploded the sun
paused bible time
and my growth line
i knew i was alone
knew i was burning
but i couldn't wake
till god spoke
i remember everything
even the dragon's sting
monsters at my window
voices in the shadows
crucifix held to my chest
running in the street
this was my test
till god spoke
hope hearKen has previously published po-
etry under the name hope houghton. however,
a shift in ideals has caused her to take up the
name hope hearken. hope includes now her
Christian beliefs and her love of God in her po-
etry. Follow her on Facebook. | photo by: Foto-
Katolik Flickr Creative Commons
-
The Wayfarer: A Journal of Contemplative Literature | 21
Waiting by D.l. Collins
Sometimes wading looks like waiting
as we sense the approach of storm
long before dark clouds appear.
When waves churn deeper water
our waiting looks like wading,
or a cry of alarm, or a search for a foothold,
or a feeling of foolishness, or a sink
into drunkenness, or a call to war,
or jealousy, or self-righteousness, or pain.
rarely, like a song, our wading
becomes a miraculous, light step
over dangerous sea.
She Was not a Bird by D.l. Collins
She was not a bird
who would stay still for no reason.
it was hard to tell if she was aware of you
while she sat on a twig, chirping
or made the nest tight for her babies.
always grateful for the morning,
she could spend hours upon
hours telling a story about the sky;
she would forget to eat and drink
so lost she became in the glory of it.
now she sits and quietly
ignores the clouds that gather.
no longer looking out,
she does not attempt to recite the colors
that are there for the taking.
even as she recedes,
there is something
in the shadow of her glances,
a look like she has heard a fair weather report
from some far-off place.
D.l. CollinS lives and works in the Detroit area. after a record-breaking winter freeze in the midwest,
she gazes at greening plants and trees as if they were a new invention. She anticipates basking in the
glowing light that appears in michigan in June and watching fire flies rise from the lawn when the sun is
only just sinking at ten oclock in the evening.
-
22 | The Wayfarer: A Journal of Contemplative Literature
The hiGhWaY by Barry Yeoman
the constant
groaning
of diesel
from
route 70
below
the underpass
down the road
we
desperately
hope for
something
anything
beyond this
gasoline and rust
we have
barricaded
our hearts
with ashes
one can spend
a lifetime
dreaming
of eternity
we sit
and wait
but
cannot sleep
till
our pockets
of thought
are emptied
the
highway
continues always
like
an endless
evacuation
BarrY Yeoman was educated at Bowling Green
State university, the university of Cincinnati,
and The mcGregor School of antioch university,
in creative writing, world classics and the hu-
manities. he is originally from Springfield, ohio
and lives currently in london, ohio. his work has
appeared in Red Booth Review, and is forthcom-
ing in Futures Trading, Danse Macabre, and Har-
bingers Asylum.
-
S
erge
Bys
tro F
lickr
-
The Men Died Firstby Sharlene Cochrane
in my family, the men died first; the women carried on. Women in three consecutive generations faced the death of their husbands from early, unexpected illness. necessity shaped their response as they became family matriarchs, resourceful, resilient, and alone.
-
The Wayfarer: A Journal of Contemplative Literature | 25
i. Bina rykena voogd (1847-1924)
abe o. voogd (1847-1882)
Bina rykena voogd sat beside the bed where her hus-
band of eleven years lay, his weak form covered with
blankets and the multi-
colored quilt they re-
ceived at their wedding.
holding his hand tightly,
she bowed her head, his
faint, uneven breathing
in her ear as she held
back tears. it all hap-
pened so suddenly; this
illness, the quick de-
cline, and now, sitting
in the bedroom, a cold
wind blowing outside,
her dear abe, so close to
death. This was not their
plan, their vision for
their life together. She
kept up constant prayer,
repeating fearfully,
please dont die; weve
struggled so much, and
have such happiness
now with our young and
growing family.
abe and Bina each ex-
perienced the long jour-
ney to the united States
by ship. abe traveled
from the ostfriesland
region of northern Ger-
many, and at nineteen,
the oldest of five chil-
dren, he helped his fam-
ily make the overland
trip by train to illinois.
There they lived for six
years within the grow-
ing ostfriesen commu-
nity there, and journeyed by train to Cedar Falls and by
wagon twenty miles further west, finding rich, rolling
farm land near other German settlers in north central
iowa.
Bina remembered the ship that brought her and her
parents from hannover, Germany, and the train to iowa
as well. She often said she never wanted to take such
a long, exhausting trip again. The voogd and rykena
families each farmed land near highway 20, between
parkersburg and ap-
lington, two tiny towns
serving the growing
number of iowa farms.
Bina often thought
about how much life
improved once they
settled in iowa. The
farm was hard work
every day, but she
loved the green fields,
the wild prairies, and
the beautiful flow-
ers. They had many
friends, and families
helped each other
with harvesting corn,
building barns, and
preparing and storing
food. Through these
events and gather-
ings she came to know
abe, a handsome man
and hard worker. af-
ter a short courtship
he asked her to marry
him, and she eagerly
agreed.
They began mar-
ried life on a small
farm near their fami-
lies. They spent long
hours working their
farm, and Bina gave
birth to four sons: olt-
man, now ten, richard
eight, five year-old
Dick, and abe, carry-
ing her husbands name, recently turned one. The boys
were a handful, especially the younger ones; still they
...Bina accepted that her dream with Abe
of a family farm where they would
support themselves and raise their
children was not possible. She made
a decision that changed her life
and the trajectory of her childrens
own dreams.
___________________________________________________________Left: Kate Mereand-Sinha Flickr Creative Commons
-
26 | The Wayfarer: A Journal of Contemplative Literature
would learn to do their farm chores, and promised to
be a big help once they grew older.
Sitting at his bedside as she carefully watched her
husband, Bina tried not to imagine what she would
have to do to take care of her family without abe. it
was more than she could bear. Their four little boys,
without a father. The family without abe to farm the
land, protect them, and help these boys grow up. abes
favorite brother John lived on the next farm, with a
growing family of his own, and constantly talked about
moving on to minnesota. abes other two living sib-
lings were on the farm with their aging parents. There
wasnt room, and the boys werent old enough to help.
She would have to stay and make their farm succeed;
if not, what else could she do?
Despite Binas tears and prayers, abe voogd died
march 10, 1882, at the age of 34. Bina, also 34, now
faced all the realities she had not wanted to consider.
Family members reached out to help, and neighbors
were sympathetic to Binas plight. Within a few months,
however, Bina accepted that her dream with abe of a
family farm where they would support themselves and
raise their children was not possible. She made a de-
cision that changed her life and the tra jectory of her
childrens own dreams.
having expected to be a farm wife in a role she
knew well, she sold their farm, left her familiar world,
and settled in the nearby town of aplington. She pur-
chased a modest house, and rented rooms to boarders
to make ends meet.
Bina, the sole support of her growing family, focused
her time and energy on the lives of her four sons. She
stayed connected to her ostfriesen roots, continuing
to speak German, and even listing the boys in the iowa
State census of 1885 with their ostfriesen names: olt-
man, rike (richard), Dirk (Dick), and ebe (abe). She
also made sure the boys attended the small public
school in aplington. each of the brothers took advan-
tage of the opportunities for education and leadership
in their small town, and developed a profession or a
business, while maintaining a close relationship with
their mother. as the brothers became productive town
members, Bina left the demanding boarding house
role, supported by her sons.
oltman, the old est of the four voogd brothers,
managed The aplington news, the weekly newspaper,
while his brother Dick attended the university of iowa
law School. When Dick graduated and began his law
practice, oltman stayed at the newspaper, eventually
purchasing it. he married, and with his wife and four
children lived next door to Bina.
Dick served as one of the two lawyers in apling-
ton, and also served as mayor for ten years. Both Dick
and abe, the youngest brother, continued to live with
their mother at various times during these years. abe
managed the local grain elevator, and worked in other
sales positions in the town.
at the age of 15, seven years after his father died,
richard started a merchandise business, a small store
on aplingtons block-long main street. richards store
expanded to a larger storefront, advertising general
merchandise and millenary. he also bought and sold
property, establishing with a colleague the Tiedens
and voogd real estate office. he married Bena Weiss
when he was twenty, and they had three children. The
family lived in a substantial home in town, near his
mother.
in her later years, Bina lived with her son abe and
his wife. Called Grandma voogd by all, she remained
the head of the family, overseeing the activities and
enterprises of her sons. She never married again and
lived more than forty years without her husband abe,
before she died in 1924.
ii. Bena Weiss voogd (1874-1942)
richard a. voogd (1874-1921)
Bena Weiss voogd, Binas daughter-in-law, sat with her
desk full of papers, and tried to take in their message.
The family real estate business lost money again.
The lands that seemed so lucrative a few years ago
produced less now, and the situation worsened each
year. Somehow the death of her husband richard had
opened up a hornets nest of bad financial news. We
were doing so well! What are we going to do now? she
kept repeating to herself in disbelief.
Bena married richard voogd at a time of great
promise for both of their families.
like the voogds, Benas parents came from Ger-
many in the 1860s, settled for a while in illinois, where
Bena was born, and then moved on to iowa. after de-
veloping a successful farm, the family moved to town
in 1889, where her father Fred Weiss ran a grain, coal
and implement business. he also served on the city
-
The Wayfarer: A Journal of Contemplative Literature | 27
council and the township board of trustees and had
a small real estate business. it was a happy time for
Bena, including a wonderful trip with her father to the
1893 Worlds Fair in Chicago. She treasured the two
beautiful glass goblets they bought there, with dark
red borders and their names painted on the glass.
Bena and richards marriage the year after that trip
celebrated the coming together of two of the towns
leading families.
not all was happy, however; difficult times ar-
rived more than once. Their beautiful baby girl Beulah
passed away when she was only two. With their son
Fred only six, Benas parents living next door offered
the young family support. Bena especially valued her
fathers energetic and positive attitude. Then, seven
years later, her father died of a heart attack, while on
a real estate business trip in minnesota. he seemed
so vibrant, even at 62, and traveled regularly. now
a grieving Bena waited, while richard and her uncle
made the railroad trip north to retrieve the body. Those
were the hardest years.
Benas attention wandered from the piles of finan-
cial documents on the desk to other memories of her
married life. Their two-story, beautiful home provided
space for their family and they often welcomed visi-
tors. Sometimes richard drank a little too much, like
the time he was driving their new car and ran it right
into their garage door. one Christmas, he caused a bit
of a scene, and wrote a letter of apology to son Fred,
away at business school, for ruining the holiday. But
that didnt happen very often, and he carefully moni-
tored his financial affairs, so they continued to live
comfortably.
richard sold his general store in 1913, and concen-
trated on real estate, which continued to support them
well; in fact, he was able to buy a farm in the name of
each of their children, for future security. She laughed
when he wrote to Fred at business school urging him
to be careful with his spending, so typical of richards
attitude: i hope you willget the habit of taking care
of your money as i told you before, every successful
man absolutely has to learn this lesson. The sooner the
better. money is a mans best friend. (richard to Fred,
February 17, 1917)
Their three children, Fred, Beulah (named after little
Beulah who died) and edward, grew up strong, bright,
and healthy. Fred succeeded at business school, and
richards connections with the owner of the bank in
austinville led to Freds job there as a bank clerk. That
same summer Fred married neva Stockdale, and they
began life together, living with nevas brother on a
farm at the southern edge of town. Beulah excelled
in school, and eagerly planned on attending college,
while ed cared less for school, spending time with
friends as a gregarious, busy young man.
Then, without warning, richard became seriously ill
and lay bedridden for a month. The doctor called his
condition, embulis, (likely pulmonary embolism, or a
blood clot that lodged in his lung), and despite con-
tinuous medical care, richard died on July 24, 1921, a
steamy, hot, terrifying day. he was 47 years old.
Bena knew their son Fred, married and working,
could be a great help. But Beulah was 16 and edward
only 13so many financial needs, college expectations,
and pressures to keep up the house and business. like
her mother-in-law before her, Bena looked for the way
to support her children while facing new and unset-
tling challenges. Fortunately, richards brother Dick
became the legal counsel for the business, and her son
Fred, as she had expected, took over many daily re-
sponsibilities. She hoped they could count on richards
business to continue to support her family. if so, they
would manage.
The year after richard died, however, the familys
fortunes began to change. Benas tax returns from 1922
and 1923 showed yearly losses of $2000. 1924 returns
improved, yet still showed a loss, and again in 1925, the
losses amounted to $2000. in addition, richards es-
tate remained unsettled, leaving questions about what
taxes to pay. The lands managed by the business of-
fered little security.
after many long discussions, Bena, Dick and Fred
decided that a trip was necessary to see these lands in
person and determine what recourse to follow-to sell,
rent, or continue to own the farms. This would be a
major undertaking, as the lands included farms in min-
nesota, South and north Dakota, and even a farm in
Saskatchewan. Fred arranged for his brother edward
to go along, and uncle Dick went, bringing his legal
experience. Freds best friend and brother-in-law, Bob
Stockdale, who had his own farm, joined the travelers.
They set out in august 1925, Fred driving his 1922 Buick,
going all the way to Canada, in an effort to resolve
several of the unsettled land transactions.
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28 | The Wayfarer: A Journal of Contemplative Literature
Bena faced this loss of income and status amidst the
increasingly depressed national farm economy. The real
estate business gradually closed. The only farmland still
in the family were the local holdings richard had pur-
chased earlier for the children, which offered some finan-
cial security. Bena continued to live in the family home,
in a modest fashion, staying active in church and main-
taining a strong hold on her children as they became
adults. Cared
for by daughter
Beulah, moth-
er voogd re-
mained in her
home until she
died in 1942,
t w e n t y - o n e
years after rich-
ards death.
iii. neva
S t o c k d a l e
voogd (1893-
1984)
Fred r.
voogd (1896-
1936)
neva Stockdale
and Fred voogd
became high
school sweet-
hearts. neva,
three years old-
er, grew up on a
large farm four
miles west of
aplington, while
Fred lived in town. They attended the same presbyterian
Church and new two-story high school. They socialized
with a shared group of friends, attending occasional
movies in near-by parkersburg and band concerts in ap-
lington every Saturday night, when the farmers came to
town. after she graduated in 1912, a member of the first
high school graduating class in aplington, neva helped
on her familys farm, and remained a part of this social
scene. During those years the two began to court.
neva hoped that once some of her five younger sib-
lings got old enough to work the farm, she could go to
college. Fred enrolled at iowa State Teachers College
immediately following his graduation and quickly de-
cided this school was not for him. in 1916, he enrolled
at the Business School in Cedar rapids; the same year
neva was finally able to start college. Fred advocated
for her to attend Cornell College in mt. vernon, only
twelve miles from his school, and neva agreed. Their
informal dat-
ing in apling-
ton became
a more estab-
lished court-
ship while
they were at
school, with
Fred traveling
by streetcar
most Fridays
to visit neva.
Fred com-
pleted his
schooling the
next year and
began his job
at the austin-
ville Bank, two
miles from
the Stockdale
farm. he saw
no reason for
neva to con-
tinue with
college, al-
though neva
held back.
even though
she admitted her grades needed improvement, she
was having a great time at Cornell, making many
friends, and she preferred to continue.
late that same spring, however, nevas parents
called her home. Gladys, her oldest brothers wife,
was bedridden with illness following the birth of their
first child. Following weeks of suffering and uncertain-
ty, Gladys died, and the family needed neva to stay
with brother ray and the new baby. once she was
home, it was clear to neva that she would not be re-
Women became matriarchs in the Voogd family in three consecutive
generations. While the details
of their lives varied, critical factors led to this identity....
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The Wayfarer: A Journal of Contemplative Literature | 29
turning to school, and on a brilliantly sunny, hot July 24,
1917 Fred and neva married.
The couple spent their first two years of married life
with ray. neva wrote in response to her sister-in-laws
death, it certainly is a blessed thing that one doesnt
know whats before themit seems hard to think its
for the best but we know it must bei always think of
Someday Well understand. (neva to Fred, 3/31/17)
This was a reference to the Bible verse from John 13:7:
Jesus answered and said unto him, what i do Thou
knowest not now; But Thou shalt know hereafter. This
deep religious belief gave her reassurance in the midst
of such losses.
after living at rays for two years, Fred and neva
moved to their own home, a block from Freds moth-
er, Bena. neva focused on raising their sons Kenneth,
born in 1921, and richard, born three years later. Fred
stopped each afternoon at his mothers house on the
way home from the bank. The family continued to at-
tend Saturday night band concerts, family activities,
and the presbyterian Church. on alternate Sundays
they would visit nevas mother on the farm and Freds
mother a block away.
after 1921, when his father richard died, Fred took
on responsibility for the real estate business and its de-
clining income. probate issues continued, as well as dis-
couraging financial losses each year. he took the road
trip to Canada in 1925, assessing the land potential
of various farms, time away from his young sons and
neva, who he addressed in his letters as Dearie. in
1934, while these probate and income issues continued,
his uncle Dick, legal counsel for his mothers estate,
died. Fred faced further financial and legal burdens.
neva knew that Fred sometimes suffered from stom-
ach pains or bowel problems. She remembered his re-
assurances, after the travelers left for Canada, that he
bought some magnesia and take a dose, my bowels
are in better shape than before, so dont worry. (Fred
to neva, august 9, 1925) however, early in the summer
of 1936, at the age of 40, Fred became suddenly and
seriously ill, with painful abdominal cramps. alarmed
and fearful, neva drove him to the hospital in Waverly,
thirty miles away. The doctor insisted Fred stay for ob-
servation, and told neva to go home, get some rest,
and return the next day. She assumed that meant Fred
would improve, and reluctantly left the hospital. instead,
she learned the next morning that Fred had died dur-
ing the night: June 21, 1936. The death certificate read
perforated gastric ulcer, peritonitis and neutropenia
a massive infection in his abdominal cavity.
neva, with 15 and 12 year old sons, faced a broken
heart and an unsure future. She built her life around
Fred and the family they created together. Financial
support for neva came in part from her mothers farm
income, and from her mother-in-laws help in erasing
the mortgage she and Fred owed on their home. She
and her sons could stay where they were and maintain
much of their daily life among family and friends.
at the same time, the loss continued to take an emo-
tional toll. neva tried to hold on to her faith that there
is a reason for each death, even if we dont know what
it is. as a poem she wrote at Christmas time that very
hard year suggested, Xmas 1936 reinforced her belief
that there are reasons for the deaths that come and
that Fred would want them to be happy:
But God Knows what is Best for all
and its not for us to say
Just who should be the ones to go
or who the ones to stay!
So now een tho were lonely
We Know that Daddy dear
Would want us to be happy
and wish others Christmas Cheer!!
Two years later, near the anniversary of Freds death,
neva reflected with more subdued sadness. She ques-
tioned the belief that God determines who dies and al-
ways for some good reason. Spring 1936, described a
yucca plant growing near the house, which the family
watched throughout the spring for its first blooms. But
as the flowers opened:
how could we know
What their message was to be?
When the first white bell unfolded -
Daddy wasnt there - to see!
But how could we have known
What their message was to be?
That tall stem pointing, up to heaven
Was all that we could see!
april 29, 1938
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30 | The Wayfarer: A Journal of Contemplative Literature
neva never fully said goodbye to Fred. She kept his
coats and straw hats in the closet upstairs, and saved his
bureau contents as they were when he died. She began
to save other kinds of items, stacking church programs,
magazines, and newspapers in piles in the living room
and bedroom. her sons married, served in the army, and
moved to new communities, while her saving practices
expanded.
By the time neva died, almost 50 years after Fred,
each room overflowed with saved objects and papers.
She no longer allowed anyone to come into her house;
visitors could only join her on the screened-in front
porch. She still took flowers from her garden to church
every Sunday. She visited family living nearby, and vol-
unteered with her sister hazel at the town library. But
no one went in the house, where neva shuffled about
through the pathways in each room, holding on to her
Dearie, Fred.
iv.
Growing up, the only story i knew about these three
generations was that my grandfather Fred died when
my father was twelve. no details, no back story, and only
a few hints about how strong Grandma voogd was,
raising four boys, and a photo of mother voogd at a
holiday dinner in her home, surrounded by family mem-
bers.
Whenever we visited Grandma neva, we stayed with
her younger sister, hazel, who lived in a two-story frame
house on main Street. hazel never married and was ac-
tive in the library, and her home was the gathering place
for the various family members. We always stopped in
Des moines on our family visits, where Freds sister Beu-
lah lived. She was a teacher for many years, and having
waited until her mother passed on to marry, became a
widow a few short years later.
These women shaped my ideas about gender. They
lived independently in their own houses. They traveled
to visit us and took trips to several western states. Their
lives included friends, work or volunteer activities, and
few interactions with men, other than their brothers. i
loved these women, admired them, and wanted to be like
them. To find out that my great grandmother Bena and
Great-great Grandmother Bina also had this experience,
also lived independently and well, never remarrying and
living close to their children, made my lived experi-
ence part of a constant thread. That strong character
and commitment to carrying on came through gen-
erations, not only the generation i knew and loved.
i didnt see the possible shadow sides of their life.
neva continued to function in the world after Fred
died, volunteering at the small local library her sister
hazel and other members of the Womens Club began,
making floral arrangements from her garden for Sun-
day church services, and traveling to visit her sons
families. after she died we finally went into nevas
house. We found the pathways through the house, the
piles of newspapers on every surface, Freds clothes
in the closet, 50 years later. her outward expression
was independent, managing well. however her home
became a lonely place, overflowing with saved stuff
and she allowed no one to visit her. her independence
and individual life had its compromises.
at the same time, i slowly learned of troubling
attitudes toward the earlier womens life choices; a
reminder of the way in which our choices may pro-
duce both strength and sorrow. Bina, Grandmother
voogd, raised four boys who became successful
members of the community. The whispers criticized
how demanding she was, perhaps how her strength
to carry on meant pressure and expectations on her
children that led them to do what they did, whether
they wanted to or not. her son richard opened a store
when he was 15how did that come about? perhaps
he found satisfaction in that step; or did he want to go
to school like his brother Dick, or farm nearby, rather
than buy and sell farms? Was his occasional drinking
connected to the pressure he experienced, his own
unfulfilled dreams, or his loss of a father when he was
only eight? Did his drinking contribute to a thread of
alcohol abuse in future generations?
Bena, mother voogd, also required much from
her children. her son Fred stopped at her home every
day after work, before returning home to his wife and
children. neva hinted more than once that she was
unhappy about that. Beulah lived with and took care
of her mother, delaying her own marriage until after
she was forty. She never had children, and her hus-
band (like her brother and father) died young, within
a short time after their delayed marriage. perhaps
Beulah chose that delay, accepting the expectation
that she should not marry while her mother needed
her.
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The Wayfarer: A Journal of Contemplative Literature | 31
Sharlene vooGD CoChrane grew up in nebraska,
but always felt i was from iowa. She teaches in the
self-designed masters degree at lesley university,
and is currently writing a series of stories based on a
collection of her iowa grandmothers letters. She also
facilitates Courage and renewal retreats for educators
and recently published Courage in the academy: Sus-
taining the heart of College and university Faculty in
the Journal of Faculty Development.
The place where these women lived, the land and
farms of north central iowa, played a role in their abil-
ity to survive. Bina had the resources to change her
life because she and husband abe had a farm that
provided her with funds to move to town and estab-
lish a boarding house. Bena and her husband richard
started with a small store in town that served primarily
farmers, and then a real estate business that provided
well for them for many years, mostly by buying and
selling farmland. nevas mother and the resources of
her familys farm supported her after Fred died. each
was in some way dependent on the land to provide
their financial stability.
The network of families, especially women, that
existed in each generation offered critical additional
support. The voogds came from ostfreisland as an ex-
tended family, and interacted and traveled with others
from their home country. They farmed in an area where
many of their fellow immigrants settled. While they
lived far from everything they had known, they were
also part of a stream of immigrants from that area,
and experienced a shared culture. While Bina moved
to town and left the farm life she knew, she moved to
aplington, four miles away, and stayed in contact with
those around her. She lived alone, yet had siblings and
other women she knew and could depend on for sup-
port, advice, and understanding.
Bena also had friends and links to immigrant fami-
lies of her mother and father, and was part of the voogd
extended family. Though her financial status declined
in the years following richards death, her links within
the community and the church continued. her children
were older, too, so her needs for support differed from
her mother-in-law with her young boys. Benas chil-
dren, especially her daughter Beulah, became part of
her support network.
neva, the most fragile of these women, depended
heavily on the women around her. her sister hazel
was an important support, living two blocks away, and
serving as the center of family gatherings and interac-
tions. With five brothers, all married and with children
of their own, the family connections and interconnec-
tions within the town and nearby farms provided child-
care, travel companions, and help with typical auto
and house problems. While her quirky ways tended
toward isolation, the family as a whole served to keep
her connected.
i tended to romanticize my grandmother neva
and grand-aunts hazel, and Beulah, imagining them
as happy, independent, and capable. While they were
all of that, at some level, each of them, and i have no
doubt Bena and Bina as well, had their share of lone-
liness, heartbreak, fear of the future, and challenges
around children, finances, and managing in difficult
circumstances.
Women became matriarchs in the voogd family
in three consecutive generations. While the details of
their lives varied, critical factors led to this identity;
most importantly, each faced the death of her hus-
band from early, unexpected illness. unlike many wid-
owed women of their times, they each chose not to
marry again. Their situations offered limited options,
often disrupting the lives the family had known. They
exhibited independence, resourcefulness, and, espe-
cially with Grandma voogd and mother voogd, an un-
bending will. They also counted upon their children as
they aged, and created expectations that shaped the
childrens experiences as well. and sometimes grief
and loneliness continued, as each woman carried on
for her children, while holding on to what she could of
an earlier time.
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32 | The Wayfarer: A Journal of Contemplative Literature
Feature poetC.m. rivers
Compass by C.m. rivers
how do we become so fenced in,
afraid, mean-spirited?
Why not instead leave a trail
of breadcrumbs along the hedgerow.
Some acts of heroism are so quiet
no one sees. let them go.
Someone doesnt always need to know.
You are the keeper of the knowing,
and that can be enough.
Before you stow fragments of your life
in a shoebox in the closet,
you may want to reconsider
the heart compass,
study the topography of spirit
and the surrounding earthworks,
look where lines are drawn
between what others claim as truth
and what you, yourself, have chosen.
Watch how i behave.
See how i welcome silence?
There were days when i, too,
fled from it,
days like smoldering cellos,
days that came down along the coast.
i would put myself in the silence,
as a trial, then run away pleading.
prophecies might be foretold
in mirrors and temples.
So be a little less organized,
let things clutter up.
Dust and muck are a part of it.
See the mountains?
Fling yourself out the window,
swing yourself across
the peaks and valleys,
back to where your journey began.
Knapsack by C.m. rivers
its a shame
i dont have the patience to garden,
my mother being who she was,
doing what she did with sunflowers
and lemon balm.
and with me being who i am-
a fine cook responsible
for so many glowing embers,
so many bubbling broths.
The memory of her is light enough
to take with me wherever i go,
propelled